


trope meme ficlet #1

by la_dissonance



Series: commentfics and drabbles [2]
Category: Bandom, Empires
Genre: Bodyswap, Celebrities, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:42:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_dissonance/pseuds/la_dissonance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The guy on the other end of the line doesn't sound anything like Sean, but he reminds Tom enough of Sean that he doesn't hang up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	trope meme ficlet #1

**Author's Note:**

> for a prompt from quintenttsy :)

There are a lot of things Tom can't put in writing when it comes time to do a blog post and release Garage Hymns into the wild. Out of everything that went into making this album, most of the blog-worthy stuff is off limits. Like the challenges of tracking the last few songs with an absentee drummer, that's good but it's still too fresh, too much of a recent hurt to write about even if it did end up changing how they looked at things. There's nothing stopping him from writing about all the days on the road, but he's not sure that's a part that matters. That just slowed things down, it didn't _change_ anything. The one part that really matters, the thing that made the difference between this album and a completely different one, is also entirely impossible to put into a post, partly because of the legal contract in a shoebox in his closet expressly forbidding such action, and partly because no one would believe a word of it anyway.

It had started late one night with a phone call from a New Jersey number he didn't have saved, which Tom answered purely out of spite and an intention to yell at whoever it was for waking him up. 

"Hey, Tom, thank goodness. I need you to go over to my apartment and check if I'm still there," the guy at the other end said, without so much as an introduction or a hello-how-are-you or a marketing spiel to break the ice.

Tom sat up and scratched at his beard. "What?"

"This is Sean," said the guy at the other end who was definitely not Sean. It sounded like an old dude — not grandpa ancient, but definitely not Sean. Also the accent was all wrong. "I need you to go over my place right now, c'mon, Tom, please?"

"What the hell," Tom grumbled. The guy didn't sound like Sean, but there was something inexplicably Sean-like in his plea that kept Tom from hanging up. 

"Look, remember that time last week when we got high and made s'mores on my stove and then you burned your tongue on the fork and said you were never using metal utensils again in your life?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Tom said, involuntarily pushing the tender part of his tongue against the backs of his teeth. If he'd been sober he'd probably have sworn off fire forever, but cutlery had seemed like the obvious culprit at the time.

"Would I remember that if it wasn't really me? We were the only ones there and I know you didn't go around telling that story to everyone we know."

"How do I know you're not holding the real Sean hostage?"

"Because I _am_ the real Sean. Are you on your way to my apartment yet?"

"Yeah, yeah," Tom said, swinging his legs off the side of the bed and finding his topsiders in the dark.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," the not!Sean person says, then, "Don't hang up, okay?"

"Did you get involved with the mob, or, like, drugged and kidnapped somewhere?" 

"I have no idea what's going on; I don't even know where I am. Just go over and tell me what you see, yeah?"

"Yeah, okay," Tom said, and spent the rest of the drive in somewhat tense silence, phone pinned awkwardly between his ear and his shoulder so he could hear not!Sean breathing on the other end. Who knew, maybe it was Sean. 

"Sean's lying in his bed, dude," Tom said after he'd let himself in and crept through the darkened apartment, stomach clenching with nerves. This whole thing was _weird_.

"That's not me, Tom, you gotta believe me."

Tom sat down on the couch, keeping the door to Sean's bedroom in his line of sight. "If that's not you, then who is it?"

"Maybe...I dunno, I'm in this guy's house right now, it's really fancy. Maybe we switched? Maybe it's him?"

"Working hypothesis: you swapped bodies with some random rich dude from New Jersey. Fantastic."

"Shhh, don't wake him up, we don't even know who it _is_ ," Sean said, sounding panicked. 

"Is there a wallet anywhere? Any ID? You could find out pretty quick."

"I'm just wearing underwear and I locked myself in a bathroom," Sean said. "I think there's someone else here."

Bathroom. They could work with bathroom. "Are there any prescriptions in the medicine cabinet, anything with a name on it?" Tom pulls Sean's laptop off the coffee table and wakes it up, ready to google for clues the moment Sean finds anything. It was just easier to think of the guy on the other end of the line as Sean — if it wasn't, then he just wasted a night indulging a crazy person with a warped sense of humor, but if it was...well, if it was, then Sean clearly needed his help, and not giving it was unthinkable. 

"Nothing," Sean said, after some rummaging. "I think this is some kind of guest bathroom. It's really fancy here, like, they've got one of those rainforest showers that rains on you from directly above and all of the towels all match each other. In the _guest_ bathroom."

"Can you look in the mirror? Ring any bells?"

"Already did. I just look older, though, nothing that would help — hey, do you think maybe I traveled in time? Maybe that's future-me back there with you."

"How would you be calling me if you traveled in time?"

"I dunno, it always seems to work in Doctor Who. Got any other ideas?"

Tom wracked his brain. "Is it an iphone? You could try skyping me, maybe I'll see something you missed."

Sean was able to confirm that it was an iphone, after checking, and then Tom had to talk him through setting up the video call, which would have been agonizing even if Sean had been sitting right next to him, and was like pulling nails under the current circumstances. When the call finally came through, Tom actually dropped the phone and had to go fishing for it under the couch.

"Holy fuck," he said.

"What? What? Tom? Am I a famous serial killer or something? What's going on?"

"Dude," Tom said, once he'd found the phone and taken a couple of deep breaths for strength. "You're Bruce Springsteen."

"Not funny," Sean said, wrinkling his nose. "I could give you a tour of the bathroom if you think it would help."

"No, seriously," Tom said. "Do you not know what Springsteen looks like?"

"I don't know anything about him! All I know is he has that song about dancing in the dark that everyone always covers —" he broke off and hummed a few bars, as if Tom might not know what song he was talking about, and his eyes grew wide. "...Whoa."

"Yeah," Tom said. "So I think you need to get on a plane immediately and get your ass over here before the real Bruce wakes up. But disguise yourself first. But get on a plane."

"Right, yeah. I should...do that."

"You gonna be okay?" Tom asked.

"Think so," Sean said, but he looked so lost that Tom cursed the miles between them right now. Tom had a whole arsenal of things he could bring out when Sean looked like that — hugs, backrubs, distracting video games, weed — but nothing that would work with Sean halfway across the country. 

"I'm going to let you go so you can do your whole sneaking out thing," Tom said. "But I'll be right here if you need me. Call back as soon as you have a flight, okay?"

"Okay," Sean said. "See you soon."

—

There's no call, but Tom wakes up a few hours later to find Sean-in-Springsteen's-body shaking him out of a doze. 

"Dude, you left my front door wide open," Sean says. "Is he awake yet?"

"No, it's ass o'clock in the morning. How are you here already?"

Sean shrugs. "Turns out you can get places pretty fast if you have a ton of money to throw around."

Tom nods; hopefully Bruce doesn't kill them for spending his money on emergency flights to Chicago. His main thought had been getting Sean back.

"I'm dying for a coffee," Sean says, and Tom follows him in to the kitchen. It's comforting to sit at the tiny table under the window and watch him move around the space, scooping the coffee, pouring water in the the machine. It might not _look_ Sean, but the motions are familiar. Sean hums under his breath as he pushes things around in the fridge looking for milk, then curses under his breath when his search comes up empty. Tom smiles. 

"Quit smiling, it's not funny," Sean says. "Just because you can drink it black doesn't mean we all do."

"I'm not, I'm just glad that it's you in there."

"Oh," Sean says. "Well, good, milk shortages are no laughing matter."

They nurse their coffees in relative silence, stealing glances at Sean's bedroom every so often.

"What if it's not him?" Sean asks, after a while.

"Hmm?" The caffeine hasn't hit yet, and now that Sean's here, and safe, the lack of sleep is starting to catch up with Tom.

"In my body. What if it's not a straight swap? What if it's like a circle — some random person jumps into my body, I jump into Springsteen's, he jumps into the other person's..."

Tom frowns. "We'll just have to wait until he wakes up, I guess."

"What if he makes a run for it? You can climb out of my window pretty easy, the fire escape is right there."

Which is how they end up crouched outside Sean's bedroom as dawn begins to break, conferring in hushed voices whether they should break in together or if one of them should be out on the street in case whoever's inside decides to make a run for it.

"I can hear you boys through the door, you know."

Tom and Sean both freeze. "Fuck," Sean mouths. There's footsteps from inside and then the door opens.

"Hi, I'm Bruce," says the man in Sean's body, extending a hand to Sean. "Though you probably already figured that out."

Sean awkwardly stands and shakes his hand. "Nice to meet you."

Tom opens and closes his mouth a few times, but no words come out. What do you even say in a situation like this?

"I'm going to go take a leak, and then we can chat. I'm sure you boys have a few questions." 

Sean nods mutely and Tom just swallows a couple of times. Bruce Springsteen. In Sean's apartment. With Sean's face. There's really nothing you _can_ say to the guy.

They go out for pancakes, at Bruce's suggestion. Tom makes Sean wear a hat and then stops back at his own place on the way to the diner to grab a scarf and sun glasses as well. The only thing that could make this weirder is if people start noticing. 

Nobody notices, perhaps because Sean looks like the typical successful-businessman-trying-to-look-stylish douche and Tom and Bruce look like 90% of all the 20-something white guys in Chicago. Bruce tucks into his stack of pancakes and explains something to do with congenital mind/body link defects and solar flares with an ease that suggests long practice. Things should set themselves to rights within a week or two, he explains, reassuring them that the longest he's ever seen a swap last has been sixteen days. Tom finds he doesn't have much of an appetite. 

"So we just have to...wait?"

"Afraid so," Bruce says, not looking at all concerned. 

Tom looks over at Sean and Sean gives him a tiny nod, nearly invisible behind his layer of scarf. Tom exhales a breath in relief. At least he won't have to beat up an internationally famous rock legend for Sean today. 

"Usually I like to lay low when this happens," Bruce says. "It's easier for both of us if we just stay away from people who might know me. Does that couch of yours fold out?"

Sean nods.

"Excellent. What do you boys do in your spare time?"

Tom wishes he'd stop calling them "you boys"; it makes him feel like he's ten years old and just been called into the principle's office. 

"We're in a band," Sean says. "We don't really have much spare time outside of that."

Bruce's eyes light up and he leans forward, pushing his plate to the side. It looks weirdly different than when Sean makes the same expression. "What kind of band? Are you working on anything right now? Do you tour?"

"Rock? We just put out an EP? But we haven't really started writing anything new yet, we just got off tour," Sean says, flustered.

"Usually these things breaks from music for me," Bruce says. "One time I swapped with a real estate investor, it was torture."

Tom grimaces, because that sounds awful. Both the real estate investor part, and the week-long mandatory break from music. "You could come hang out in the studio with us, we were just going to jam some, maybe work on some of Sean's new stuff. Um, if you wanted."

Which is how they end up holed up in Max's basement for a week and a half with Bruce fucking Springsteen. Bruce flies in a lawyer who makes them sign a form saying they absolutely will not record Sean singing anything until they switch back, but when Sean comes up with a final version of his new song and tentatively asks Bruce to sing it through once for a rough demo, just so they can hear how it sounds with the rest of the instruments, Bruce has no objections. "Who's going to know?" he asks. "Besides, I like this one. Just promise me you'll re-record it for the album, that should be all you."

If Sean maybe swooned a little bit and clutched his heart, Tom's going to prudently assume he's contractually prohibited from ever mentioning it. When the album finally comes out, he tells the internet that Night Is Young was a special song that inspired the whole thing, but stops short of saying why. What more could he possibly say? Besides, all the important people already know.


End file.
